An Alternate Reality
by Kia Hiram
Summary: Descole's dying and his memory takes him back to a time and asks him to make a choice. Set in an AU after Azran, so there's spoilers. Also mortality issues, a little bit of blood, and sadness. Is T a good rating for this? We'll see. Please read and review!


A bloody, stress-fueled fic documenting Descole's last moments. AU set after Azran Legacy. It's jumpy and stuff but haha ignore that plz

**Spoilers! for Azran yeah**

**I don't own anything let's not do the legal battle thing ok level 5**

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><p>It was cold, but he couldn't shiver.<p>

He could feel the warmth flooding out of his body, but he was powerless to stop it. If he had to die by Targent's doing he would have wanted to have done so as Descole. With his pride, his dignity…with his true face hidden behind the mask. Behind the costume. But they must have known, for when they attacked him, it was one of the first things to go. Now the mask lay with him, as broken as he was. Unrecognizable but still familiar…bloodstained and utterly useless.

He stopped feeling the blows and the cuts rather quickly. He choked on his own blood as he wondered how they had found him so easily. He thought he had been safe. Bronev was gone, so why were they even after him anymore? Not that it mattered. They had him now…his life was fading away at their hands. His eyes grew heavy, his head pounding. Each beat of his heart spilled more blood from his body...each beat allowed his soul to leave just a little sooner.

In only a moments time Descole felt something that caused him to open his eyes, if only for a moment. A gentle touch on his face, something fond and reminiscent of his mother. As he fought to focus his eyes Descole realized that it wasn't her, but Raymond's figure that wavered in front of him. How Raymond had come to save him was beyond his knowledge, but that wasn't at all important to him now. He was already dying, already halfway dead.

Raymond was trying to help him, get him up on his feet. He was frantically bunching Descole's cape up around the bloody wounds, attempting to stop the bleeding.

"Master, it's alright. Ol' Raymond's got you now. You'll be better in no time—"

Raymond's voice was wavering and Descole refuse to even try to stand. He knew his time was up, as Raymond feared, and he was preparing to face death with as much dignity as he had left. He would go out like the man he always promised his mother he would grow up to be…not as the man he actually was. This one time, he refused to be a coward.

"I'll be fine. Leave me be."

The words triggered something in Descole's mind. Behind lidded eyes, his mind took him back. Back to the days aboard the Bostonius. It was clearer than any daydream he had ever had, his senses overpowering the dullness he had felt. His mind took him away to the past as Descole and Desmond breathed their last breaths against the cold night air-as Raymond held his Master against the pavement that was growing colder every moment.

Desmond had been sobbing. In his small study aboard the ship, away from the group of people whom he had, somehow, come to love. His glasses were tossed upon the desk in front of him without care. His hands where tangled in his hair, palms resting on either temple. Desmond was biting his lip, attempting to keep the sobs in. But there was nothing he could do about the tears.

They welled up out of guilt—this burning guilt that filled up his chest. Not only about what he had done, had almost done, to his brother and those who cared for him…but for what he was about to do. What he had planned to do all along: use them for his own needs. He planned to leave them more or less for dead, but how could he do that now?

And the past—damn the past! All the times he had wished Hershel dead. And that little boy, Luke Triton…he had always been a child. An innocent boy—how had he never seen it?

His teeth were not enough to hold the sobs in, and with a shudder he released his bloody lip from their grasp. Desmond moved both of his hands to his lips, attempting to muffle the pitiful sounds forcing themselves out. He loved them, he shook his head at the thought, but he knew it was true.

He was welcome here. The children were so kind to him, as was Emmy. And Emmy—he had never wished to compare someone to his beloved, but there she was. It was just the general niceness and demeanor surrounding Emmy that reminded him of his wife, and he knew—oh he _knew_—that he was seeing things that really weren't there. But Aurora, sweet and innocent Aurora, reminded him of his daughter on staggering levels. Every time she smiled at him, his heart skipped a beat. He saw his daughter in her, in the way her hair fell from her pony tail, in the way she was slightly hesitant with just about anything new. It was damning, this all had to have been a sick joke from the Azran. It just had to be. And that wasn't even counting the kindness and playfulness that Luke showed every day, the willingness to follow and trust no matter what happened. He didn't want to see that little boy hurt, to see him cry, but he knew he would have to face that.

And then there was Hershel.

He had never expected Hershel to have grown up as he did. He supposed he had made a good choice for his little brother, but he still wished things had been different. Desmond remembered how frightful Hershel had been when he was younger (technically Theodore, but who cared at this point?) and he wondered how many nights his poor brother had lain awake, crying much as he was right now, because of terrible memories that refused to resurface?

He wanted to stay here. With Hershel, with this little makeshift family, where he was happy. But that was just foolish—he had a job to do and he wasn't about to let Bronev get away with whatever he had been planning. And he wasn't about to let him go off guilt-free from what he had done to their families. What he had done to their _lives. _

"Professor Sycamore?"

His heart sank. He stood up immediately, knocking his chair into the wall behind him. He turned his face down, sure that he looked like a pathetic cowering pup. It sickened him, and he muffled a sob, moving his arms to hold himself.

The door shut. There was a pause, a hesitation. "Desmond, are you quite alright?"

Desmond shook his head at first, but when Hershel took a step towards him, he held out a hand and took a step back. "N…no, I'm sorry you had t-to see me like this, professor."

Hershel was quiet. Desmond knew that he was reading him, but he wasn't afraid. There was no way Hershel could figure this puzzle out. There was not enough empirical evidence for that. Not yet. "If something is the matter, I can assure you that—"

"I'm just having bad memories." The words stung the air, deepening the atmosphere in the already stuffy room. "I miss my family." That was truth enough to satisfy Hershel, Desmond suspected. Hershel took another step, and Desmond finally looked up at him, stopping him in his tracks. "I'll be fine…!" The words were exceedingly harsh, something Hershel had not seen from this man before.

Grunting, Desmond looked back down. "Leave me alone." These words were much more broken than the ones prior.

_"Master!" _

Desmond looked up to see Hershel tipping his hat. "As you wish." The words were mere whispers on his ears.

_"Master, please! You can't—" _

Hershel turned towards the door, and Desmond's heart fell. He reached out, tears overflowing out of his eyes. He couldn't do it. He couldn't let Hershel leave him this time. If he was going to relive this memory, he was going to change it. He was going to change everything. He was going to end up with a family. He wasn't going to be alone. He wasn't going to _die_ alone!

"Hershel."

_Descole._

Darkness overtook the room. The mumbled word hadn't been enough to change his fate. Hershel was opening the door, and dread washed over Desmond's mind. If he was going to change his life, now would be the time.

"Hershel, wait! Please—don't go."

_Don't go._

Hershel peaked at him from under the brim of his hat. "I am leaving, as you instructed me to. If you wish to follow, however…" There was a slight smile on his face. "We're all out here. Waiting for you." _With open arms_.

Desmond shook his head, hesitating for a moment. He allowed his eyes to close, and all everything washed away. The room was once again bright, and the overwhelming pressure of guilt and dismay was suddenly lifted from him. Taking a deep breath, he took the few steps to the door.

Hershel was waiting on the other side, a small smile on his lips. "We're your family, Desmond." He held his hand out to him, which Desmond took immediately. He was filled with a warmth that he hadn't noticed had left him, and he couldn't keep the tears back any longer. "I had been waiting for my brother to return to my life."

Desmond gasped, but that was the last thought he had pertaining to the topic. What did it matter if he knew? Or how long he had known? All that mattered was the embrace of his little brother, which he happily accepted.

His tears still rocked his body, but he felt like he was crying for a different reason than before. What had that reason even been, anyway? He felt the others gathering around him, holding him in their embraces, as well. Before he knew it, his tears were gone.

Aurora was the first one to say something. She tugged at Desmond's shirt, smiling up at him.

_Descole_

Desmond frowned. "What was that, my dear?" He removed himself from his brother, smiling and bending closer to Aurora's level.

"Let's play!"

With a nod, he followed the young girl back to her previous seat, sitting and allowing her to teach him a game that she remembered seeing children play before her memory blacked out. Of course, it was in the form of a puzzle, like always.

An intricate, never-ending puzzle-exactly the kind he would happily spend the rest of his days solving. But morality wasn't something that bothered him anymore. Especially not with such a warm, comfortable family surrounding him like this.

And somewhere, in a faraway alley, a man who was already dead dreamed of happiness. The dream, eternal as it was, allowed him to pass with a smile on his face. But it was really two men who died that night, one to the coldness of death's embrace, and the other to warmness of the past.

Both Jean Descole and Desmond Sycamore were long gone before day broke the next morning.


End file.
